


Applepiegate

by TitaniumKitten



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 05:10:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11867415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TitaniumKitten/pseuds/TitaniumKitten
Summary: Roman stole Dean's apple pie. Dean is mad. But it isn't all about the apple pie.





	Applepiegate

**Author's Note:**

> My muse is being picky af. Have this thing it managed to help me out with. Written in about 30 minutes so please excuse any mistakes.

Dean settled back on his bed, title laid loosely over his waist. Seth had insisted they go out for drinks, nasally expounding on the amount of groupies he knew would follow and how much tail they could get with minimal effort.

Dean just wanted to sleep.

He knew they were buddies again, that Seth was a “new man”, but a little itch in the back of his head still made him nervous around the other man. 

He sighed, remembering how he and Roman would celebrate title winnings back in the old days. Before a huge bearded weird lumberjack guy started being more important than little stolen kisses backstage and the occasional romp through a broom closet. 

He sighed again, turning on his side and punching the pillow.

“The apple pie was the _last_ straw.” He muttered to himself. Knowing that it had only a little bit to do with an apple pie. He groaned, remembering his slip at the interview. The “fangirls” or whatever they were called were having a field day with that, he was sure.

He looked down at the title, stroking it with a finger. Grand Slam Champion. He thought of how much better it would feel if it had been Roman at his side and felt his eyes prick with moisture.

“Stupid…” He muttered to himself, sliding off the bed to place the title on the small writing desk in the hotel room.

He opted for a quick shower, the pounding water not getting the memory of the taste of cinnamon out of his mouth. Brushing his teeth didn’t help either.

He slumped back onto the bed, finding some Murder, She Wrote (Score!) on tv and settling down for the night.

Halfway through Angela Lansbury being an absolute badass as usual, there was a knock at the door.

Dean ignored it. Probably some drunk kids or something.

Another knock, this time the one they used to use in the Shield to see if whoever was in the room needed some more “alone time” or not.

He got up, padding to the door and checking the peephole.

Roman.

Roman was out there with a...room service cart?

But the hotel didn’t have room service.

But there it was, a cart with a white tablecloth over it, a large silver dish covered by one of those fancy silver domes and a bottle of something in a silver ice bucket along with champagne glasses.

Dean’s heart fluttered. 

“Remember the apple pie.” He muttered to himself, opening the door.

“Hi….” Roman said quietly.

“Hey….” Dean replied.

“Can I...come in? Please?” Roman sounded….wistful...and sad.

Dean stood aside and let Roman walk into the room, pushing the cart.

“Y-yeah. Sorry the living embodiment of a lobster and a douchenozzle pinned you.”

Roman snorted. “Thanks. I’ll get him, don’t worry.”

“Uh...what’s up with the cart, dude?”

“Sit down on the bed, will ya?”

Dean sat, his curiosity overriding the awkwardness of the situation.

With a flourish Roman removed the dome from the dish. 

Dean almost choked. The dish was piled with Popeye’s cinnamon apple pies, still steaming hot and fresh. Or...as fresh as one could get.

Another flourish and the ice bucket revealed a glass bottle of ice cold milk.

Dean snickered.

Roman smiled.

“This your way of apologizing?”

“Part of it.” Roman shrugged. “The rest of it is me eating your ass until you scream and come all over yourself.”

Dean spluttered.

“I mean, if that’s ok.”

“Uh...yeah...yeah...I think that’s a pretty good apology.”

Roman positioned the cart and poured two glasses of milk.

They gave each other goofy smiles as they clinked the glasses.

“To us?” Roman asked, sounding nervous.

“To us…” Dean replied, grinning and turning back to the tv.

“Babe….Murder, She Wrote?”

“I know, right?” Dean said happily.

“Score!”


End file.
